


downpour

by bluemccns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, and then i didnt, bc i need to post some writing samples, but heres the first chapter, once upon a time i was gonna write a me before you au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemccns/pseuds/bluemccns
Summary: the first chapter of a me before you au that i am never going to finish. look both ways before you cross the street kiddos.





	downpour

Keith likes his life. By no means is it perfect, but he decides somewhere along the way that the existence he leads is a fairly decent one. According to most standards, his most basic human needs are met; there’s a roof over his head and food in his stomach. The water in the shower only runs cold  _sometimes,_ and only fails to run at all in the rare event that they forget to pay the bill. All in all, the bachelor lifestyle has been kind.  
  
His roommate, Pidge, is not as kind. The loud, metallic clanging of pots and pans causes Keith to wake with a start. Eyes snap open, and once the initial pounding of his heart settles back to a reasonable pace, the faded checkered duvet is thrown aside to make room for a confused and slightly irritated Keith to stumble to the kitchen. He isn’t sure what to expect, but he finds Pidge sitting in the middle of a cookware avalanche beside a toppled chair.

  
“What the  _hell_  are you doing?” Keith asks, his voice still thick with sleep.  
  
“Well,” Pidge begins, slowly rising to their feet, “I wanted some damn pancakes, and I wasn’t about to wait for you to get your ass out of bed. You think I don’t know how late you’re up all the time?”  
  
Keith shrugs bare shoulders at the accusation and watches as Pidge adjusts their glasses. Standing at their full height, it’s almost amusing how someone so small could have such colorful vocabulary.  
  
“Anyway,” they continue, “I needed the pan from the top shelf. Of course, I couldn’t reach it, so I stood on a chair. And then, well…” They gesture to the mess around them, the long sleeves of an oversized shirt flapping with the motion. “Curse my short arms.”  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t be trying to stand on a wooden chair in those ridiculous socks with no traction.” Keith interjects, crossing his arms.  
  
“These socks have traction!” They lift one foot to observe the underside of one the fuzzy knee-high socks, then frown. “At least… They did.”  
  
“Mmm-hmm.”  
  
“Don’t criticize my taste in pajamas when you sleep half naked.”  
  
“I’m shirtless, Pidge. Besides, you aren’t even wearing pants!”  
  
At this, they smile, then tug on the hem of the shirt that hangs to the middle of their thighs. “Damn right I’m not.”  
  
A sigh from Keith in response, and then he’s bending over to pick up a fallen pot from the tile floor. “I’m getting some of those pancakes, right?”  
  
“Depends,” Pidge says, grabbing the pan they need and spinning it by the handle thoughtfully.  
  
“On what?”  
  
“If you’re helping or not. Nobody likes a freeloader, Keith.”  
  
He can’t help the way the corners of his mouth turn upward. “Yeah.”  
   
Once everything is put back on its proper shelves, Pidge and Keith set to work on breakfast. He’s never considered himself a master chef, but Keith has a knack for making something out of anything, so pancakes don’t pose much of a challenge. The batter is simple, but with the near obscene amount of chocolate chips, it probably wouldn’t even matter what it tastes like.  
  
When they start off, they’ve devised a system. Keith makes the batter, and Pidge cooks. Everything falls through once the batter actually hits the pan. After setting off the smoke alarm, Keith decides to take matters into his own hands and leaves Pidge to wash some of the silverware that’s been sitting neglected in the sink. The sound of the radio in the background is soft, almost drowned out by the sizzling of the cooking pancakes. Keith is able to make out the sound of a familiar song and hums quietly to himself.  
  
“Is this more of your emo music?” Pidge asks, having finished the dishes and hoisting themselves to sit on the countertop.  
  
“Okay, first of all, this is the radio, Pidge. It’s not my music.” The last pancake is placed on top of the pile and Keith turns off the stove. “Secondly, everyone knows Mr. Brightside.”  
  
Pidge wastes no time in snatching a pancake into their hands. “Yeah, but that’s because it’s practically reached meme status by now,” they say with a mouthful of food.  
  
Keith shakes his head and grabs a plate from the cabinet, then takes a second one to hand off to Pidge. “Here. Don’t be a heathen,” he says, then presses a fork into their free hand as well.  
  
The two of them stay like that, Keith standing and Pidge sat atop the counter while they eat. At some point, Pidge busts out a jar of peanut butter and the two of them smother their pancakes with it. As far as Tuesday mornings go, it’s a fairly normal one, but nearly picturesque all the same. Rain taps against the window, and Keith watches the drops slide down the glass as he sips his second cup of coffee. Everything is somewhat peaceful; it almost feels too easy. That’s because it is.  
  
“Shit,” Keith mumbles, then sets the mug down.  
  
“What’s up?” Pidge’s eyes are trained on Keith, but their hand is slowly inching toward the last pancake.  
  
“I have a job interview in an hour and I haven’t even showered yet.”  
  
“Go ahead. I’ll clean up.”  
  
“Sure you will.”  
  
Keith heads for the bathroom and hears the light thump of Pidge hopping down from the counter. He turns just in time to see them hastily shove the last pancake into their mouth, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. That’s probably the extent of their cleaning, Keith knows, but still smiles.  
   
 

* * *

  
   
   
Keith decides a suit is too formal, so he opts for jeans and one of the two button-up shirts he owns. It seems like a good idea until he’s trying to pull denim up damp legs. He wrestles with his pants for a while, and by the time he buttons up his shirt, his hair is almost completely dry. It’s decided to be cooperative today, thank God, and he decides it’s suitable enough to be worn air-dried. A quick look in the mirror after he pulls on a pair of nicer shoes he found in the far corner of his closet, and he thinks he looks as good as he’ll get if he wants to be on time.  
  
He ignores the teasing whistle from Pidge as he stalks into the living room to grab worn black fingerless leather gloves from the coffee table.  
  
“It’s raining,” Pidge remarks, and  _that_  catches his attention.  
  
No way can he take his motorcycle in the pouring rain to a job interview. He groans, tossing the gloves aside and digging out his wallet to ensure he’s got enough cash for a taxi. There’s a sufficient amount of money to get him there and back. With that, he heads out the door, waving in response when his roommate wishes him luck.  
  
It doesn’t take long to hail a cab. Keith climbs into the backseat and tells the driver where to go before checking himself in the reflection on his phone screen. The rain hasn’t managed to completely soak him, and he’s relieved. That doesn’t do much for his nerves, however. Anxious fingers drum on the torn taxi seat while he looks out the window. He needs this job. Well, technically, he doesn’t need it to survive, but he needs it to  _live_. Keith and Pidge aren’t poor, but they aren’t able to do much in terms of recreation. There are so many places he wants to go, but he lacks the necessary funding. The pay from this job could provide it, and just thinking about it makes the knot in his stomach twist even tighter, then completely drop when he sees he’s already arrived.  
  
Shaking hands fumble with the money when he pays the driver, and Keith feels like a baby deer on wobbly legs as he steps onto the sidewalk. To his dismay, it’s still raining. Right across the street is the building that matches the address scribbled on the scrap of paper stuffed in his wallet. The cab drives away, and he’s left standing face to face with opportunity. Today could be life changing.  
  
But not if he’s late. He checks his phone; three minutes until his interview. His eyes dart from the time to the dimly lit “don’t walk” sign. Teeth chew his bottom lip, and in a fleeting moment of impulse, he decides he’s going to get there on time or die trying. There’s no sign of oncoming traffic, but he figures the least he can do is look both ways through the heavy rain. Nothing. Dress shoes slosh into a puddle, and his muttered curses are muffled by the rumbling of an engine. His head whips in the direction of the noise just in time to see the faint glow of the headlight of a motorbike through the downpour.  
  
And then everything is dark.  
 


End file.
